You Sure Love Your Planes, Don't You?
by Nishinn
Summary: It was just a deadpan, a harmless comment...right? No. He loved his planes, but he didn't love seeing people get hurt. Everything he's done during the war was finally catching up to him and America was certain that he couldn't take it anymore. (some fluffy America-centered stuff. Slight USUK. Post-World War 2 regret-fic.)


**Yeah, because I'm in the Hetalia fandom now. Also, Alfred has been declared my official main bebi for this fandom, so here's an America-centered thing I whipped up. It's also 'cuz I (obviously) haven't written in a while and I felt like I have to revive this. To those waiting on my other fics... um... I guess they're all on hiatus until I update because I have zero motivation.**

 **So this is America-centered, happens after World War 2. It's some generic shit with Pearl Harbor and Revolutionary War stfu thrown in because I'm original that way. Also because I haven't really seen much and I wanted to write. May be OOC. Slight/Implied-ish USUK. I don't own Hetlia.**

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"You sure love your planes, don't you?"

It was nothing but a harmless deadpan. An illegitimate comment. Nothing more.

…right?

America shivered, glad that the Brit liked to turn his back to him when indulging in his cup of tea. The American forced a smile anyway. He struggled to think of something- _anything-_ to say; maybe even a laugh would do. Nothing came though.

Too late.

The Brit's shoulders stiffened, head tilting slightly. "America?" his voice was laced with concern, and America knew he was in for it. "America, is there something wrong?"

"I-uh…I…" he gulped. England turned, his skeptical expression slowly melting into that of suppressed concern. Typical England, really. The Brit had to pause, mid-sip, staring nearly dumbfounded at the American's expression of utter _regret._

That was how America liked to think he looked, anyway. _Regret._ That was all he felt, all he thought, all he knew. He loved his planes, sure, but after Hiroshima…

He shivered again, hoping the Brit couldn't see his shoulders shaking.

"A…America?" The heavily accented voice came gentler this time. America tried to keep his attention on the dainty little teacup that was being set down onto the wooden table, England's hand movements slow and steady. America wished his feelings stabilized like that…

Hands now folded across his chest, England grunted. "Well, are you going to tell me what's got the _Hero_ all depressed or not?" he demanded, struggling to mask the ebb of concern from his forcibly nonchalant tone. America almost smiled at the thought of it.

Almost.

He looked down, a few stray hay-colored strands of hair flitting through his field of vision. "I…" He took a deep breath. Maybe talking wouldn't be so bad. Besides, heroes can't vent-up their pain forever, right?

"I…I regret it, England." He muttered. That got those green eyes blinking.

"W-what?" England stared, arms lowering to his sides.

"I regret what I did to them." His voice was less shaky now, more determined. He went on. "I regret what I did to…to Japan. I know he'd attacked first, but… all those innocent people who had _nothing_ to do with any of it… They're all dead or dying because of _me._ Heroes aren't supposed to hurt the innocent. They sure as hell aren't supposed to _kill_ the innocent. And I killed them from my plane…because I couldn't stand to think of what I was doing. I couldn't stand to _see_ them dying. But what I did to… to Kiku…" America nearly choked, feeling a slight burning in his eyes. "I know heroes were supposed to fight fair. I guess I was just too cowardly to see it…"

A blanket of silence settled over the two. The elder nation glanced outside the huge glass windows of the Air Base, over at the fighter planes aligned perfectly, seemingly brand-new and ready for battle…

…Even though the fight was over.

America stared at him, watching his ally's thick eyebrows scrunch up in concern. His vision blurred. He felt a wetness collect at his chin. Was he crying?

His quick, intended-to-be-discreet action was executed a little too late. England had turned and caught him. His poorly constructed mask of indifference faded completely, and he immediately took several steps closer, a cold feeling settling around his chest.

"A-america?" His voice was soft, despite the panic in his eyes. The last time he'd seen the nation cry was just before the Revolution, and they had been tears of anger and frustration- the tears of a dangerous ambition. Well, that was how it felt to England at the time.

This time, he saw something... not quite sadness, not quite depression… something like… regret. Well, that _was_ what he'd said he felt.

He could see him struggling to hold back another wave of tears.

America was afraid to speak. He didn't want to burst out sobbing in front of England. No, definitely not England. Not _anyone._ He was supposed to be the hero, right? Why now did he feel so… worthless? Was this how Japan felt when he bombed Pearl Harbor? No, certainly not. He felt much too justified in that. He'd bombed a military base, America had bombed _cities._ He'd destroyed homes, businesses, a way of life for thousands. He couldn't even remember what he was thinking then, recalling only that rush of pride upon hearing the news that the bomb came through.

Then there was the immediate _shame_ he'd felt, seeing how Japan fell to his knees, staring up at him, eyes wide and unbelieving, blood seeping through his uniform. Did… did America smile then? He did. He was trying to mask the shame. And seeing the city…

The nation blinked, staring up at his elder. He was aware of his vision blurring with tears once more. He ignored it.

"America? Hey…." England was standing in front of him now, a hand placed timidly on his arm- a vain attempt at a comforting gesture. Geeze, when had the brit turned so bad at this? America recalled head-pats more meaningful than that.

"You know," England started, glancing down. "What you did wasn't… _the right thing to do,_ exactly. In all honesty, it was a little terrifying." He tried for an awkward laugh. "But I'd never thought you'd regret it."

It was America's turn to scrunch his eyebrows. "Huh…?"

Then England smiled. A genuine, well-meaning smile. "I never thought you'd regret it, Alfred." America almost stumbled upon hearing his _name._ "But you do. You _care._ That's something to look at in a good light. You give a damn about things you've done, even though you try to make it seem like you don't. That's a good thing, Alfred." Then there was a hand on his cheek, wiping away… more tears. Right, he started crying again while staring dumbfounded at the shorter country. England was still smiling, not unlike the smile he wore when he'd comfort Little America after the latter had a nightmare.

But England went on, the hand never leaving America's cheek. "Remember how it took you a century or so to actually get talking to me again after your little Revolution?" _Little?_ "You actually admitted that you cared, remember? That's something you should never lose, Alfred. I know you want to go and talk to Japan, and I know you're still not ready. But please, this time," he smirked, drawing his hand back. "Try not to wait another century."

America couldn't help but smile at the Brit's familiar sass. Yes, _sass._ England had that.

"T-thanks, Arthur."

Emerald green eyes crinkled in a smile. "Any time, love," He said with a kiss to the cheek.

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Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

America brought his hand up, hovering it over the wooden door-frame. He was right in front of Japan's house. He was going to talk to him. But what if…

No. He shouldn't fear rejection. If Japan wouldn't forgive him, well… he deserved it. He deserved every ounce of wrath Japan would throw at him. As long as his people won't be involved, he'd take the physical pain.

He could take it.

 _Thump, thump, thump._

Three solid knocks. After a few seconds, the tentative pitter-patter of footsteps could be heard on the other side of the door. The American braced himself.

The door slid open, and by his expression, America could tell the shorter man was tempted to slam it back shut. Though instead, he steeled his expression and gave a plain, "What?"

No "America-san"? Wow, he _was_ mad.

A deep breath. "Kiku, I'm sorry," He blurted out. "I don't deserve your forgiveness, I know, but I still want you to know that I'm sorry. Your people suffered, and are suffering, and I know I couldn't take it if it were _my_ people. So I'm sorry. I… I really am sorry."

A thick silence settled over the two. After a solid count of ten, Japan sighed. The nation leaned casually against his door frame- something greatly unlike him. America almost questioned it until he saw the hand inching towards his abdomen, where no doubt a wound was still healing.

So he winced, but said nothing. The pain he'd felt when Pearl Harbor must've been nothing compared to _that_.

Another few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed between them, then Japan spoke. "It's going to be hard, America-san," He said suddenly, nearly startling the other. "This wound still hurts. My people are suffering tremendously."

"I'm willing to help," The taller nation stated determinedly. He was waved off.

"I know you will, America-san, whether I take you up on that or not." Japan smiled, fixing the other with his warm brown eyes. "You are a good person, even though you may be extremely unbearable at times."

"So I've been told."

Both of them laughed. Nothing like drunken joy, but something mutual, bringing sense of relief to them both.

"I can never say with my boss," Japan said after their shared chuckle had died down. "But I, as myself, forgive you, Alfred Jones."

America had to smile at that. "Thank you, Kiku."

"Now," the older country said, pushing up from his doorframe. "Would you like to come in for some tea?"

The American shrugged, smiling. "Why not?"

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 **Hope ya liked it. review!**

 **~Nixh**


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